THE INQUEST

The opening and closing of doors and the murmur of distant voices came fitfully to David Curtis as he sat near the window of his bedroom, his head propped against his hand and his sightless eyes turned toward the view over the hills to the National Capital. He had sat in that position for fully an hour trying to reduce his chaotic thoughts to order. Out of the turmoil one idea remained uppermost—John Meredith had undoubtedly been murdered. Who had committed so dastardly a crime? Would the answer be forthcoming at the inquest?

Contrary to custom, Coroner Penfield had decided to hold the inquest at Ten Acres instead of having it meet in the District of Columbia Morgue, and he had specified three o’clock that afternoon—it must be close to the hour. Curtis touched his repeater—a quarter past three. The inquest must have started. Curtis reached for his cane and then laid it down.

Coroner Penfield had said that he would be sent for when his presence was required.

Curtis had eaten both his breakfast and luncheon in solitary grandeur in the small morning room upstairs, waited on by Fernando who had been told by Mrs. Meredith to act as his valet. During the morning he had requested an interview with Anne, but a message had come from Mrs. Meredith stating that the girl was completely unstrung by the shocking death of her uncle and could see no one.

That the entire household was thrown out of its usually well-ordered existence was evidenced by the confusion among the servants. It had required all Mrs. Meredith’s combative personality to check the incipient panic and keep them at their work. The servants represented a number of nationalities. Jules, the chef, and his sister, Susanne, Mrs. Meredith’s maid, had come from France before the outbreak of the World War; Gretchen, the chambermaid, was a new acquisition, having arrived from Holland only the previous fall; Fernando and his twin brother, Damason, had been in John Meredith’s employ from the time he brought them with him from the Philippine Islands eight years before. But in point of service Herman claimed seniority, having served first as office boy and then been taken into Meredith’s bachelor household as valet and later as butler.

Curtis had judged somewhat of the excitement prevailing below stairs by Fernando’s unusual talkativeness, except on one point—he became totally uncommunicative when the subject of string was broached.

“You tell me you say last night, ‘Fernando, hang string on my door so I find bedroom,’” he had repeated. “But please, Mister Doctor, you no tell me that,” with polite insistence. “Always I do what you say. I good boy.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” a touch of impatience had crept into Curtis’ quiet voice. “How was it that a string was tied to the knob of Mr. Meredith’s bedroom door and thereby led me to believe that it was my bedroom?”

“I dunno,” Fernando clipped his words with such vigor that his lips made a hissing sound. “Please, Mister Doctor, I dunno,” and with that Curtis had, perforce, to be satisfied.

Curtis stirred uneasily in his chair. He would have given much for an interview with Anne before the inquest. As it was he was going further into the affair blindfolded. His lips curled in a bitter smile—a blind man blindfolded! Did Anne wish to go on with the marriage ceremony arranged for her by her uncle? Was he to consider himself engaged to her? He had been given no key to the situation—no inkling even whether he was expected to remain as a guest at Ten Acres, or to leave immediately after the inquest.

Mrs. Meredith had left him severely alone, but he had been informed by Fernando that his fellow guests had gone their several ways into town but would return in time to appear at the inquest. Leonard McLane had hurried away also at the conclusion of the autopsy, first having extracted a promise from Curtis that he would make him a visit of at least a week’s duration should he decide to leave Ten Acres.

A discreet knock on the door brought back Curtis’ wandering thoughts with a jump.

“Please, Mister Doctor, you are wanted downstairs,” announced Fernando, and stepping forward he offered his arm to Curtis.

The coroner’s jury to a man gazed with curiosity at the blind surgeon as Fernando guided him to the chair reserved for the witnesses. Upon consultation with Mrs. Meredith and Sam Hollister it had been decided to hold the inquest in the library and Coroner Penfield had lost no time in summoning his jurymen, while the servants, under Mrs. Meredith’s direction, had arranged tables and chairs and made of the attractive living room a place in which to conduct a preliminary investigation. The general public had been excluded, but Coroner Penfield had seen to it that a large table and chairs had been set aside for representatives of the press who had early put in an appearance on the scene.

Doctor Mayo, the deputy coroner, who had been busy jotting down the details of the opening of the inquest, laid aside his fountain pen and, picking up a Bible, stepped forward and administered the oath—“to tell the truth and nothing but the truth”—to Curtis. As the latter resumed his seat and Mayo went back to his table, Coroner Penfield stepped forward.

“Your full name, occupation, and place of residence, doctor?” he asked.

“David Curtis, surgeon, of Boston,” he answered concisely. “I graduated from McGill Institute in 1906. I am,” he added, “thirty-eight years of age. I was blinded in the Argonne offensive when serving with American troops.”

“And when did you return to this country?” questioned the coroner.

“About eight months ago.” Curtis paused, then added: “I was pretty well shot up, and have been in first one hospital and then another in France, and was not in shape to return until recently. I came to Walter Reed Hospital a month ago for treatment, hoping my general health would benefit thereby.”

“And when did you meet John Meredith?”

“He called upon me ten days ago.”

“Had you never met previous to that time?”

“Never.”

“And what was the occasion of the call?”

“Mr. Meredith said that a mutual friend, Arthur Reed, had written him that I was at the hospital and requested him to look me up,” explained Curtis. “Mr. Meredith took me out in his car a number of times and then asked me to spend this week at Ten Acres.”

“I see!” Penfield disentangled the string of his eyeglasses, which had slipped off his nose. “Had you met any member of this household before you came here on Friday?”

“No; they were all strangers to me.”

“Doctor Curtis,” Penfield referred to his notes, “were you the first to find John Meredith?”

“I was.”

“Describe the circumstances.”

Curtis cleared his throat. “As I was coming up the staircase I heard footsteps approaching and then a soft thud. I could not place the sound and went ahead up the staircase and down the corridor; the next second I had fallen over Meredith’s body.” He hesitated. “I could find no evidence of life.”

“And how did you learn that it was John Meredith who lay before you?” questioned Penfield.

“Since my blindness my fingers have been my eyes,” replied Curtis. “Meredith bumped his head against a door yesterday and asked me to see if he had injured himself. On investigating the slight abrasion, I ran my fingers over his head and face, and noticed his Van Dyke beard and that the top of his right ear was missing. This aided me in establishing the identity of the dead man.”

Penfield regarded Curtis for a moment before putting another question.

“What did you do next?” he inquired.

“I found my way into a bedroom and called up Mr. Sam Hollister, a fellow guest, on the house telephone and told him of my discovery,” answered Curtis. “He came at once.”

As Curtis ceased speaking the foreman of the jury leaned forward and, with a deprecatory look at Penfield, asked:

“Was the hall lighted, Doctor Curtis?”

Curtis’ hesitation was hardly perceptible. “I could not see,” he said simply, and the foreman, intent on the scene, flushed; he had forgotten, in his interest, that he was addressing a blind man. “But on feeling my way along the hall to the bedroom, my hand came in contact with an electric fixture. As the bulb was hot I concluded the corridor was lighted.”

Penfield paused to make an entry on his pad. “Did you hear any one moving about, doctor? Did any noise disturb you as you examined Mr. Meredith?”

Curtis shook his head. “No, I could detect no sound of any kind,” he answered. “As far as I could judge I was alone in the hall with the dead man.”

“In what position did you find the body, doctor?” asked Penfield.

“Meredith had evidently fallen forward, for he lay partly turned upon his right side, his face pressed against the carpet,” replied Curtis. “His head was almost touching the banisters which guard that side of the staircase.”

Coroner Penfield glanced about the library and saw a vacant chair near the huge open fireplace.

“That is all just now, Doctor Curtis,” he said. “Suppose you sit over here; it will be more convenient if I should want you again.” And stepping forward he walked with Curtis to the vacant chair. Returning once more to his place at the head of the big table around which were seated the jurymen, he summoned Herman, the butler, to the stand.

Herman’s perturbed state of mind was evidenced in his slowness of speech and dullness of comprehension. It required the united efforts of Penfield and the deputy coroner to administer the oath and to drag from him his age, full name and length of service with John Meredith.

“He was a kind master,” Herman stated. “Not but what he had his flare-ups and his rages like any other gentleman what has a big household. But mostly he was right ca’m.”

“And did Mr. Meredith have one of his rages recently?” asked Penfield.

Herman tugged at his red side-whiskers. Of German parentage, he had been born and raised in England and brought to the United States when a lad of fifteen by an American diplomat. From the latter’s employ he had drifted to the brokerage firm with which Meredith and his brother, Marshall Meredith, had been at that time identified. There he had stayed as office boy and utility man until Meredith engaged him as valet.

“Yes, sir,” he admitted finally. “He’s been in a temper ever since a week ago.”

“And what brought on the temper?” asked Pen-field patiently.

“I don’t know, sir.” Herman paused, then added: “He found fault with the cooking, with the way the car was running, with the postman because he was late, with Miss Lucille and Miss Anne because they kept him waiting. Oh, he blessed us all out this week, sir.”

“And you say he was a kind master?” remarked Penfield dryly.

“A kind and generous master,” replied Herman stubbornly. “He always had his hand in his pocket to help some one.”

“Did you ever hear Mr. Meredith express enmity against any one?” questioned the coroner, then noting Herman’s blank expression, he asked: “Did he ever say he hated any person in particular?”

Again Herman fingered his side-whiskers. In his appearance and deportment he resembled a model English manservant.

“I can’t exactly say, sir,” he replied evasively.

“I must have a direct answer.” Penfield’s voice deepened and Herman glanced at him under half-closed lids.

“Yes, sir, certainly; but as one of the family, so to speak,” he coughed deprecatingly. “Twenty years service, come this Christmas; I dislike to—to tell tales, sir. But if you insist,” observing Penfield’s impatient expression, “why, sir, I heard Mr. Meredith, sir, speak very harshly, sir, to some—some female, last night, sir, as I was on my way to bed.”

“And who was the female? Come,” as Herman again hesitated. “You are unnecessarily taking up the time of this court. Answer more quickly.”

“Very well, sir.” Herman held his portly figure more erect. “As I was passing down the corridor, sir, after closing the house for the night I heard Mr. Meredith say—his bedroom door being partly open—‘I intend to have my will in this matter, whatever the consequences; so save your hysterics. Beggars cannot be choosers. Not one penny of my money will go to—’ That’s all I heard, sir,” ended Herman.

“And the woman, who was she?” demanded Penfield. “Come, did you not catch a glimpse of her through the open door?”

Herman wagged a bewildered head. “’Nary a glimpse of her face,” he said. “But—but—I saw a bit of her dressing gown reflected in the mirror of the bathroom door and it resembled one that Miss Anne wears.”

Penfield regarded the butler attentively for a moment. “At what hour of the night was this?” he asked.

Over in his corner by the fireplace Curtis’ hands contracted tightly around his cane and the lines of his face grew set and stern. Was Anne Meredith to be dragged so soon into the investigation?

“It was just before midnight.” Herman spoke with more assurance. “I had locked up the house for the night as was my custom.”

“Do you generally close the house at midnight?” questioned Penfield.

“Oh, no, sir. The time varies according to the hour Mr. Meredith and his guests retire,” explained Herman quickly. “I waited up last night until after Mr. Armstrong left.”

“Oh, so he went away last night?”

“Yes, sir. He came down just as I was putting up the night latch on the front door and asked me if he could get his car out of the garage, so I went with him, sir, and roused Damason.”

“Damason?” questioningly.

“Yes, sir; Fernando’s twin brother and Mr. Meredith’s chauffeur. He sleeps in the lodge down by the gate,” Herman added. “It took some time to rouse him and that made me late in closing the house.”

“I see!” Penfield fussed with his papers. “Just one more question, Herman. Did you find the house locked this morning as you had left it on going to bed?”

“It was, sir.” Herman rose and stood respectfully waiting, and at Penfield’s gesture of dismissal he left the library. As he sought his pantry he passed the drawing-room and hurried his footsteps at sight of Mrs. Meredith sitting composedly by a window, reading a book.

Sam Hollister did not keep Penfield waiting. His quick and courteous replies to every question put to him, after the oath had been administered, gained grateful looks from the reporters whose eyes had traveled several times to the clock on the mantel during Herman’s testimony.

“You state that you drew up some legal papers last night for Mr. Meredith which he signed in the presence of Miss Lucille Hull and Mr. Gerald Armstrong,” repeated Coroner Penfield. “Where are those papers now?”

“I have no idea,” replied Hollister. “I last saw them on the bed by Mr. Meredith. This morning, in the presence of Doctor Leonard McLane, and with the assistance of Inspector Mitchell, I searched Meredith’s desk and his room, but could find no trace of the documents.”

“So!” Penfield gnawed at his underlip, a habit of his when in doubt. “What were the documents, Mr. Hollister?”

Hollister drew out two folded papers and spread them open. “This is a rough draft,” he explained. “It is what is known as a prenuptial agreement, and in it Mr. Meredith settled upon his niece, Anne Meredith, and her fiance, Doctor David Curtis, a yearly income of fifty thousand dollars, share and share alike, for their lifetime, and a sum in cash of ten thousand dollars apiece upon their marriage within the week. He also,” the lawyer spoke more slowly, “wished a codicil added to his will in which he revoked a bequest of one million dollars to Anne and gave it to his cousin’s daughter, Miss Lucille Hull.”

“Did he give a reason for altering the bequest to his niece in favor of her cousin?” questioned Penfield, after a brief pause.

“He said that Anne Meredith was amply provided for by the terms of the prenuptial settlement.” Hollister laid the papers in the coroner’s hand. “I forgot to mention that if the marriage between Anne and Doctor Curtis does not take place, Anne is to be disinherited.”

Penfield ran his eyes down the two papers, then laid them in front of him.

“These are rough, unsigned drafts,” he stated, turning to the jury, then addressed the lawyer. “Does the original will stand?”

“Yes, until the codicil and the prenuptial agreement are found,” replied Hollister.

“Then Miss Anne Meredith inherits a million dollars by the terms of her uncle’s will,” Penfield spoke with added gravity. “And her cousin, Miss Lucille Hull, does not receive that amount?”

“Just so.” Hollister drew out a handkerchief. “Anne Meredith will inherit a handsome fortune whether the will stands or the codicil and prenuptial agreement go into effect or not.”

“But as matters stand she will inherit a million dollars without having to be married,” Penfield pointed out dryly, and his eyes sought Curtis.

The latter had gradually pushed his chair backward so that he was sheltered from the general gaze by a corner of the fireplace. There was a second’s pause before Penfield resumed his examination.

“Did you hear any noise during the night after retiring to bed?” he asked.

Hollister shook his head. “I am a heavy sleeper,” he admitted. “And last night I was very weary. I fell asleep at once and never awakened until Doctor Curtis called me on the house telephone, and told me that John Meredith was lying dead in the hall. I stopped only long enough to get my electric torch and rushed out and joined the doctor.”

Penfield looked up. “Why did you want your electric torch?”

“Because Doctor Curtis informed me that the lights were out,” replied Hollister concisely.

Penfield referred to his notes for a second. “When did you last see Mr. Gerald Armstrong?” he asked.

“When he left Meredith’s bedroom after witnessing the signing of the codicil.” Hollister gazed at his highly polished shoes and then about the room. “I left Miss Lucille Hull with Mr. Meredith a few minutes later and went to my room.”

“Were you aware that Mr. Armstrong intended to leave the house at once?” asked Penfield.

“No. On the contrary I supposed that he was still here, as we had all been asked to stay longer,” replied Hollister. “I had no idea that he had left last night until I went to find him early this morning, and was told by Herman that he had departed.”

Penfield turned and whispered a few words to the deputy coroner, who nodded attentively; then addressed the lawyer.

“That is all, Mr. Hollister, thank you.” And as the latter left the witness chair Doctor Mayo approached Curtis.

“Coroner Penfield has recalled you to the stand,” he said. “Allow me—”

But Curtis did not wait for the offered arm. With assured tread he made his way to the witness chair and waited for the coroner to address him.

“Doctor Curtis,” the coroner turned back his notes until he came to the entry he wished, “you stated in your direct testimony that to the best of your belief the electric lights were turned on in the hall at the time you found Mr. Meredith’s body, as the bulb was hot to the touch. Why then did you telephone Mr. Hollister that the lights were out?”

Curtis’ fingers grew taut about his cane and his sightless eyes stared straight before him. “From where I stood in the bedroom trying to telephone to Mr. Hollister, I overheard Mrs. Meredith tell her daughter Anne that the hall was in darkness,” he stated quietly.

Penfield closed his notebook and rose.

“You are excused, doctor; please resume your seat by the fireplace.” He waited until Curtis had crossed the room and then turned to Doctor Mayo.

“Call Mrs. Marshall Meredith to the stand.”